A few days later he finds me again. It is in an upmarket bar close to the station. A place I go to occasionally to unwind. To waste a couple of hours, when I can’t face going back to the empty flat. When I want to remember. The lounge is all subdued lighting and designer furniture. Comfortable and reassuringly expensive. No chance of running into any of my colleagues from work here. A good place for contemplation. For feeding the pain.
The place is deserted and I am sitting in a huge comfortable sofa in a dark corner. There is an old soft rock track playing on the superior sound system. Oddly out of character for this place. My eyes are closed as I hum along. I don’t want anyone to notice the film of moisture threatening to overflow into tears. This song always makes me cry.
He has approached without me hearing. Surprising, considering the polished wood floor amplifies every sound.
“May I buy you a drink? You look like you need a friend.”
I blink furiously, startled from my reverie. He is looking down at me with that same gentle half smile. I wonder for a moment if I have fallen asleep and I am dreaming. I look around. My surroundings are unchanged. The barman is wiping down tables at the other side of the room. He seems oblivious to us.
“Actually I was just leaving”, I lie. I really do not want company tonight. I certainly don’t want to be fending off the advances of an ageing homophile.
A sceptical frown flashes across his face as he holds out a whisky bottle and two cut glass tumblers. He eases himself into the wing back chair opposite me.
“Surely you can stay for just the one?
I eye the bottle of scotch with interest. Glendronach. Twenty five years old and close to perfection. Not a drink to be taken squandered frivolously. The old boy has taste at least.
I nod my agreement. He looks positively beatific as he pours out two generous measures. Oblivion beckons.
At first the conversation is stilted. He asks questions and I reply. How long have I been a train conductor? What did I do before that? Am I married? I keep my answers short and to the point. Almost monosyllabic. Rude. I have never been one for polite chit-chat. I take a long time to warm to strangers. I throw back a mouthful of whisky with each answer, savouring the warm sting.
He doesn’t seem offended by my surliness. His expression doesn’t change as he refills my glass again and again. A thought occurs to me.
“You're not drinking?” It’s a statement rather than a question.
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you.” He raises his glass. The ambient light refracted through the whisky gives his face a warm reddish glow. He downs the entire measure in one gulp and places the glass back down on the smoked glass table. I notice that he doesn’t refill his own glass. I begin to wonder if he expects me to drink the entire bottle. It is still two thirds full.
As the alcohol starts to take effect I find myself becoming more willing to talk. This stranger is surprisingly easy company. He hasn’t tried to hit on me. If his tastes run to intercourse per anum, he clearly doesn’t want it from me. He listens to me earnestly, nodding his understanding, occasionally offering an encouraging smile. He reminds me of an old fashioned vicar.
A few more drinks and my reticence evaporates. I really want to talk to this guy. I need to talk. I feel that I can tell him anything without being judged or criticised. He really wants to listen to me.
It all comes out. All my anger and despair that will no longer be contained. Mina’s affair, the divorce, losing the kids. Why did she do it? The sheer bloody injustice of it all. I devoted ten years of my life to that woman. Poured every ounce of myself into our relationship. Built my world around her. But it wasn’t enough. She had to go fucking my best friend. My business partner.
To rub salt in the wound the court took her side. Her solicitor said I had driven her to it. That I was unstable, domineering, dangerous. My reputation trampled in the mud. She got the lot, the house, money. Sole custody of the kids. Forced to sell my share of the business. Years of graft to build up. A real labour of love. I couldn’t very well go on working with him could I? Pretending nothing had happened.
I hope they are happy together. Cozying up in the house that I built. Playing happy families with my kids. They are already calling him Daddy.
I can contain the pain no longer and the tears come. My new friend says nothing. He moves to the seat beside me and puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. I sob uncontrollably onto his shoulder. My chest feels as if it will burst. The smell of his jacket is soothing. It reminds me of damp earth.
I don’t know how long this outburst of emotion goes on. The next thing I know I’m waking up in my own bed with the hangover from hell. I have a vague recollection of plush leather car seats. The rest of the evening is a blank.
******
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